Free In Plain Sight by Lorena McCourtney

melodramatic warning. “Just be careful, okay? She’s sharp. And not above bending—or breaking—the rules.”
    “Do you know how she acquired all her money?”
    “No, and I have to admit I’ve certainly wondered. Not on the stock market, because she hadn’t been into trading for long when I set up the bookkeeping system for her. I thought maybe she received a big inheritance.”
    Possible. That theory went along with what Leslie had said about inheriting her father’s library. Although she didn’t strike me as having come from old money. The thought then occurred to me that she may have won some huge award in a lawsuit. She’d apparently been quick enough to think “sue” in relation to the gate-ramming neighbor. And there was always Sandy’s theory about her grabbing some “rich old guy’s” money in a divorce. “You wouldn’t happen to know who her former housekeeper was, would you?”
    “She’s had several, but the last I heard Cass Diedrich was working for her. Cass brings her kids to Sunday school sometimes, but she doesn’t usually stay for church.”
    “Maybe I’ll look her up.”
    “Everything going okay for you otherwise?” DeeAnn asked. “No problems with the Braxtons?”
    “I’m not even thinking about Braxtons these days,” I assured her.
    “Good. Tell Sandy to call when she gets time.”
    Friday and Saturday also went fine at Leslie’s. By Saturday, when the remainder of the tart still hadn’t been eaten, I tossed it and made a mental note for future reference: Leslie did not eat leftovers.
    I also made another discovery. While doing the once-a-week requisite cleaning of the unused rooms upstairs, I found, as Skye had once speculated, one room equipped with enough exercise machines to turn a whole herd of Dumplings from fat to fit. I could identify a treadmill, but how the other machines worked escaped me. They had weights and pulleys and springs and belts. Probably, I decided, for muscle groups I didn’t even possess.
    Checking with Leslie first, I managed to spend a few minutes in the treasure trove of boxes in the library on Saturday. Oh, my. Everything from Dickens and Longfellow to Steinbeck and Ellery Queen!
    She’d told me I didn’t have to notify her when I left, but I ventured a peek through the door at 2:00 to say I’d see her on Monday, in case she’d forgotten I didn’t come Sundays. The office door was open today, which I presumed was because the stock market was closed on Saturday and her privacy and/or concentration were not such a high priority.
    “I appreciate that I have Sunday off,” I added.
    She picked up an envelope on her desk and handed it to me. It rustled nicely. My partial week’s pay!
    “Thank you.”
    “Oh, and this—” She reached in a drawer, pulled out a dark oblong thing that looked a little bit like a TV remote control, and handed it to me. “It’s for the gate. I mentioned earlier that I’d give you one.”
    Yes, if our arrangement proved satisfactory. No word about the status of my work, but, with Leslie, I suspected this gesture took the place of words. I felt quite elated.
    “There’s a numerical keypad on it,” she added, “but it’s programmed and all you have to do is punch that button at the top.”
    “Thank you. I was thinking … I go to Woodston Community Church. If you aren’t already attending somewhere else, it’s a lovely little church, everyone very welcoming and friendly—”
    “I get up early six days of the week, so on Sundays I allow myself to sleep in. If the weather is good, I sometimes jog in the morning instead of the afternoon. The trail is less crowded.”
    Obviously a no, although it came with an explanation, which was unusual for none-of-your-business Leslie.
    “In the eternal scheme of things a relationship with the Lord is more important than rising early or extra sleep. Or even exercise,” I offered gently.
    “I don’t believe in eternity.”
    And the door closed in my face.
    A